The Junk Drawer Chronicles
by sortasupersamm
Summary: A junk drawer of anything Seddie, ever. From sexy to sweet and every genre in between, it's all gonna go here. Mainly drabbles and oneshots, it's the perfect cure for my writer's block. So, enjoy. Individual ratings go from K to M, depending on my mood.
1. my neck of the woods

**Heyheyhey(;**

**This little song 'n dance is called **_**The Junk Drawer Chronicles. **_**And in case you don't know what that means, this is my junk drawer filled with everything Sam and Freddie. Every genre. Every situation. Every short story. Every mile-long drabble. Basically…**

**Sexy. Sweet. Spicy. Sour. Sad. Sappy. Silly. Serious. Songfic. **

… **It's all in one place. When I wanna base a story off a song, it's here. When I have a great story idea that I'm more than likely not gonna stick with, it's here. When I want them to go at it like dogs, it's here. When my writer's block is becoming a bitch and I'm getting stuff out of my system, it's here. When I have something that has happened in my life that I want to translate into the **_**iCarly **_**world, it's here. Basically, this is the duct tape of fanfiction—it does **_**everything.**_

**Now, I'm not gonna make this author's note last forever, but I just wanted to let you guys know some things up front. Basically, it's only three things.**

**Number One – Yesssssss, I take song requests for songfics and ideas and the chances of me actually writing them are **_**extremely **_**high. Just PM me your ideas, or review this chapter with your suggestion, or even Tweet me (see number-o two).**

**Number Two – I have a Twitter account, which you will see me mention in **_**every author's note ever. **_**So puh-lease follow me(: My Twitter is "at" SammyPaigeSays. This Twitter is 'specially for fanfiction and my obsession with Seddie and **_**iCarly. **_**So pleeeaaasssseee follow me. I like follows. (; I'll follow you back, I promise(:**

**Number Three –**_** Disclaimer: **_**I do not own any characters or anything here, nor do I have any intention to. So, you're good, Dan. No competition here. I'm just gonna get my disclaimer taken care of here, instead at the beginning of each chapter. So, **_**disclaimed. (;**_

**Well, read, review, suggest, follow, enjoy, love, and everything. (:**

**Xooxxxoxoxoxxo,**

**sammypaige(;**

**P.S., this entire thing is rated T, but individual stories range from baby-cuteness to hot-as-hot-sauce. I'll give story ratings in the Chapter Title **_**or **_**before the story starts. Fair warning for all. (:**

***less than three***


	2. mulligan, rated k

_**The story in which Sam and Freddie discuss their futures… Enjoy.**_

Putt-Putt Village was surprisingly lacking in visitors for a Saturday night. It might've had to be because the Go-Karts Highway race track was newly remodeled and that's where the bulk of the people were, or maybe because an unofficial Dance Dance Revolution tournament was being held inside the Arcade Tower. However, the point was, the mini-golf section, appropriately named Putt-Putt Village, of Adventure Land had all of five groups scattered throughout the four different 18-hole courses.

Sam had chosen the fourth course, or also known as the advanced course, because although she was lacking in golfing skill, she wasn't the type to stray away from a challenge. And although she had horrendously overused the term _mulligan _and it was only hole-number three, she had Freddie beat by three whole points. It was only nine o'clock and the games were just getting started anyway. Freddie stood by his annoyingly neon pink ball—the color such because he lost a game of rock-paper-scissors to Sam—as he watched Sam lower onto her stomach and use the handle of her putter as a billiards stick, tapping the ball with enough force to have it lined up closer to the hole than Freddie's.

She _was _good at pool, he admitted to himself. It was more than likely because she spent her free time at bars, where pool and beer-pong and darts were the games of choice. He couldn't help but to call attention to this thought. "Got a lot of practice, there, I see," he sneered, watching her rise to her feet and celebrate her better-placed pale purple ball. "Good to know bar-sports are good for something."

"Don't hate 'cause I'm better than you, broseph," she playfully bantered, putting her hands on her hips. Although it was Freddie's turn to go, she jumped in and tapped her ball into the hole. It circled the rim several times before deciding to be nice and land inside with a _plunk._ "That would par of two, Fredweird," she grinned, bending over to pick the ball up out of the hole. "Also known as, I'm better than you at everything, period."

Blinking his eyes rapidly after he realized he caught himself staring at Sam bending over in her signature denim cut-offs, he cleared his throat with a laugh. "Oh, really? What's the currency for Morocco?"

"Um," she paused for a second, blinking in thought before cracking a smirk. "Is it the Sam-is-better-at-your-despite-her-lack-of-trivial-knowledge dollar?"

"Actually, no," Freddie crossed his arms over his chest, trying to hold back any showing of him liking her joke. Or, _Sam-ism. _"It's the Moroccan dirham, but you were close."

"Whatever," She started walking to Hole Four, even though Freddie didn't finish his turn. Without ceremony, he tapped his ball, letting it fall into the hole. He caught up to her on the fourth hole, where you had to hit the ball up the ramp, into the door of the spooky mansion, where it would either come out the hole that guaranteed a hole-in-one, or the hole that landed beside the hole, or one that lined you up perfectly behind a rock. Sam dropped her ball onto the starting mat and scoffed. "Besides, if I had my own country, I'd call my currency the _Sam-olean._"

Freddie snorted under his breath at her pun, watching Sam hit the ball into the crappy angle of the mansion, her ball feeding out behind the rock. "_Mulligan!_" She screeched, running down to grab her ball and redo the course over again.

"Sam, not another mulligan," He rolled his eyes, knowing Sam wasn't going to listen anyway. Still, he kept trying. "They don't even use _mulligan _in tournaments. It's not allowed."

"Well," Sam argued stubbornly, dropping her putter to her feet and walking up the ramp, reaching her hand into the opening, dropping the ball into the angle that gave a hole-in-one. "Does this look like a tournament to you? I'm gonna use _mulligan _when I damn-well please."

"Sam, that's cheating," Freddie seethed, not really expecting anything less. She climbed to the top of the plateau of the rock convienently placed in the dead-center of the path between the hole and where his ball shot out.

"Nice going," She mocked, but not as harshly as he expected. As Freddie passed by her to finish his round on this course, she leaped off the rock and onto his back. With a yelp and a slight tumble, he managed to keep from falling face-first, unsure if this was her goal or not. She gripped onto him as he escorted her to Hole Five, and he couldn't help but blush at the idea of her entire front—boobs and all—being pressed up against his back. She wasn't heavy, actually far from it, but Freddie's thoughts made him weak with hormones. She slid off his back, her frontside brushing against his rear end, and his face burned even harder.

"So, is tonight going to be composed just of passive-aggressive competitor talks and world currency?" Freddie dumbly mused out loud, unsure of where to take the situation. They had been friends for years, and they were only a month away from summer vacation, which meant that they were going to graduate soon, which meant that this was more than likely one of their last trips to Adventure Land.

"Whaddya mean?" Sam didn't pick up of Freddie's melancholy change of topics, she was too busy trying to fish out her ball from the bushes when she hit the ball too hard.

"I mean," He cleared his throat. _What _did he mean? He started a conversation, hoping to lead somewhere, but inattentively composing some sort of monologue to get to said somewhere. "I dunno, I'm just, I dunno…"

"Found it!" Sam pulled the purple ball out from under the bushes, helping herself to her feet. Freddie looked at her as she leaned over again, examining what looked to be a speck on the ground. "_Aww, look_. It's a grasshopper, how cute."

He expected her to grind the poor insect's soul into the green-fabric mini-golf course with her foot, but he saw a glint of genuine interest in her blue-as-the-sky eyes. He peered beside her, clearing his throat. "Um, Sam, that's a spider."

She suddenly let out a scream, a _loud _scream, backing away from the spider that she had mistook for a grasshopper. Freddie couldn't help but let out a long, drawn-out snicker, laughing at Sam, her mistake, and the feared look on her face. "What's with the sudden change?" He let out between breaths of laughter, "Like, _'Oh , look, a grasshopper!'_ but not a spider?" Freddie continued his fit, finally coming to some sort of wrap-up. "I mean, what?"

"Shut up," She pouted, her arms crossed over her chest in minor embarrassment. "I _hate _spiders!"

"C'mon," Freddie nudged her bare arm, looking covered with goosebumps under the dim stadium-esque lights of Putt-Putt Village. "You're cute."

Instantly, his mouth froze at his choice of words. Her eyes seemed unchanged, but Freddie chewed on his tongue. That's what he meant, but that's not what he meant. Yes, he thought she was cute and pretty and kissable-looking, but he didn't mean for it come out like that, it slipped. Not wanting to take what he said back, but unsure of how to change the subject, Freddie stood there like a deer in the headlights. And by the looks of it, the driver wasn't slowing down. In fact, the driver was probably speeding up. Nothing like road rage to kill the mood.

"Thanks," Sam said in her _I-think-I-was-just-insulted-but-maybe-not _voice. She blinked, taking her ball and her putter to the next course without any further discussion. But before the _without further discussion _part would be in action, she added, "So are you."

It wasn't a lie, yes, but she tried, and we're talking physically strained, to make it sound like a sarcastic quip. She smacked her ball down Course Six, a little too hard, and it went flying into the bushes again. She groaned and mumbled out a "_Mulligan…_"

Freddie, his head spinning on his _was-it-sarcastic? _compliment, bent down to get the ball for her. She blinked in thanks, hitting her shot at the beginning of the course over again. This time, the ball banked off the wall, clanked against the pegs jutting out of the ground, and rolled to a content stop a foot or so away from the hole. Sam was not okay with the newfound awkwardness of the atmosphere, and she tried, _brainstormed, _ways to lighten the mood.

"What're you doing after high school?"

Not exactly mood-lightening, she figured, but it would do. Freddie sighed in a way that made his lips vibrate against each other, picking up on her attempt to repose the awkwardness of the situation. The awkwardness was a mystery, though, he reasoned with himself, she was called _cute, _which didn't necessarily postulate the end of the world.

_So why are things so horribly weird, then?_ Sam continued the ongoing debate inside her head, especially since Freddie was taking his sweet time to answer. Sam tried to make a subtle scoff or throat-clearing to get Freddie's dazed attention, which seemed to work. "Oh, uh, I got accepted to Washington State, so I'm probably gonna go there. Major in applied technological sciences or something."

"Boring," She disparaged, taking that as a perfect opportunity to re-lay down the playful, ridiculing nature of their friendship. Although, it came out a little more harsh than what they were used to. She bit her lip in confusion. "I mean, what about brain surgery or music or underwater basket-weaving? Do something _fun._"

"Fun," He repeated, as if it were some foreign word. He wasn't sure if she was taking a swipe at his commonly-identified-as-lame interests, or if she was genuinely giving advice. "_Your _idea of fun is reckless and scary and death-defying."

"Oh, yeah?" She challenged, not even all that insulted, but instinctively ready to not back out of an argument. "_Your _idea of fun is Sudoku, History Channel marathons, and _world-currency-knowledge…_"

"Better than unsafe sex, pie-eating contests, and kickboxing, or whatever it is you do," Freddie fired back, not even that wholeheartedly. He swung at is ball on the ground, having it erratically work through the pegs surrounding the hole before it gently rolled into the hole in one swing. He took Sam's silence as a victory, so he tried getting back to her original question. "What're _you _doing after college?"

He followed her to Course Seven, where the cliché windmill obstacle was waiting for them. You hit the ball through the opening at the bottom of the windmill, but the propellers of the windmill covered the hole every so often. "I dunno, live in the moment," Sam offered aimlessly, rolling her eyes before taking her ball like a bowling ball and rolled it down the lane of the course.

"No college?" Freddie questioned, his deep brown eyes narrowing at her plans, or lack thereof.

"No college," She repeated, taking Freddie's ball from his hand and repeating the bowling process for him. He noticed how soft her hands were. And they were cold. She wore her basically-denim-underwear shorts and a white tank-top with little flower holes punched throughout the back and torso area. Of course she was cold on a windy night like this one. He peeled his red zip-up hoodie off and handed it to her.

"Thanks," She put it on, and it was too big for her, obviously. Freddie's thick biceps stretched out the arms and Sam was a tiny girl, so the sweater was longer than what her arms were worth. He stared at her, looking at her in his sweater, golfing together alone, at nine-thirty at night. _Was this a date?_

"You didn't apply to anything?" He wondered out loud, but she assumed he was actually was talking to her.

"I did, actually," She mumbled softly as they moved on. "To Washington Sate."

"_What_?" He almost yelled out. They applied to the _same place _and he didn't even know? His head scrambled with questions. "Did you get in? Are you going?"

"I said," She sighed, standing up and starting Course Eight. It was a simpler course, except it was cluttered with sand pits and endless changes in elevation. "No college."

"Why not?" He grabbed her hands, which were taking practice swings on the ball at her feet. "You didn't get in?"

"I did," She answered softly, and he couldn't help but wonder why this was such a sensitive topic to her. It was just college. "Don't wanna go."

"Come on," They met in eye contact, his soft brown eyes meeting with her harsh blue ones, and he saw those lips, so soft-looking, so pink… "Why not?"

"Go to the same college as you and watch you fall in love with some other girl and live happily ever after?" She seemed serious, and his heart clenched at her words. _What! _But still, she continued to ramble on. "See you succeed and move on with your life and do so great? I barely got out of high school alive, so I'm probably gonna party Freshman year away and drop out, so what's the point?" He listened to her patiently, letting her get all of this out into the open. He was in shock by what she was saying, yes, but he didn't want to interrupt and have her miss any crucial details. "So I'm gonna skip out on the whole college thing, maybe hitch-hike the globe, open my own tattoo shop, because all of that would be much better than watching you forget about me and-"

_That's _where he decided to interrupted. He pressed his lips against hers, so innocently and so chastely, but electricity and fire and all things good on the planet rushed through each set of bloodstreams, as he held her and she held him. There was no movement, no tongue nothing but a much over-due second first-kiss.

He pulled away gently, looking down at her face, eyes still shut tight. "Just go to college with me. I'll take my major in applied tech and _you _can take your major in brain surgery or music or underwater basket-weaving. And _you'll _be the girl I fall in love with and we _both _will live happily ever after."

A seconds-worth of pause passed by, and Freddie feared he pushed the cheesiness a little too far. "If I do go to college with you," She finally grinned in her _I-know-everything _manner. "I get to call mulligan _whenever I want._"

**Um, cheese. I hate cheesiness, for the most part. But I couldn't think of any other way to end this. So yes, Freddie, you better fear you pushed the cheesiness too far.**

**This is called a **_**oneshot, **_**therefore, it is lacking any background storyline, any additional character development, and crucial plotline. I tried to add in some **_**bs **_**here and there about their love-hate and Carly and sexual tension and yadda-yadda-yadda, but I took it out. The point of a oneshot is to write a story based off of assumed background knowledge. But whatever. I liked how this ended up. **

**Oh, and third-person writing is my worst enemy. I **_**tried **_**to make sure it was all third-person, but I caught myself writing in first-person Freddie, like **_**a lot**_**. Sorry if I didn't catch any mistakes. ):**

**Beeteedubs, this is based off a true story. Actually, this is based off of what I did last night. Well, some of last night. I went to Adventure Land with my best friend and the currency stuff and the grasshopper stuff and the back-and-forth banter and my overuse of **_**mulligan**_** and the pool and bowling and the balls getting lost in the bushes… All of it really was said and done. The college talk and lovey-dovey crap was where the Seddie came in. **

**So everybody say thank-you to my bff Robbie for helping inspire this chapter.**

**What else? Oh yeah, **_**mulligan. **_**For those (like myself) who know little to nothing about golf, a mulligan is a stroke that isn't counted towards your score because it sucked so bad. But **_**I **_**take it to mean **_**do-over**_**. So in this story's sake, **_**mulligan **_**means **_**redo. **_

**I'm pretty sure that's all that I've got to say for now. So **_**please **_**review(: And **_**please **_**give me suggestions on new oneshot ideas and requests for songfics(: Oh, and follow me on Twitter **_**please**_**(: I made a special Twitter **_**just **_**for my fanfiction. It's "at" SammyPaigeSays. **

**So, thanks for reading(:**

**Xooxoxoxoxooxxo,**

**Sammypaige(;**

**P.S., I'm the worst mini-golf player in existence.**

***less than three***


	3. hard to concentrate

**Based off the song **_**Hard to Concentrate **_**by the Red Hot Chili Peppers. Rated M for hard drugs, swearing here and there, a sexy scene, and for Freddie being a sappy son of a bitch. **

_The time has come to deviate…_

Sam sat in the booth of the bar, a smirk on her face saying she owned the fucking place. Her legs rested on top of the table, clad carelessly in the most destroyed pair of black combat boots I'd ever seen. Carly always wore boots like them, but they were pretty and unscuffed and cost more than Sam was worth. But Sam's boots screamed that they came from Goodwill and had more battle scars than a war veteran. From her seat, she occasionally took a swig of her brown bottle of Budweiser, her feminine hands having a masculine grip on the neck of the near-empty bottle. Her eyes were lined with thick, dark make-up, which made her icy blue eyes stand out even more. While her lips stayed in a harsh, guarded line, her head bobbed to the music coming from onstage. She finished off the last of her bottle in one gulp, clanking it onto the table obnoxiously, the bottle joining its many brothers and sisters that Sam already consumed.

A man greasy hair and sunken eyes was beside her, his beard as dirty as the hair on his head. He was rolling up a dollar bill into a tight tube, pulling out a sandwich baggie from his plaid shirt's pocket. It was filled with chalky white powder and Sam's eyes lit up with interest. The man broke one of the beer bottles on the edge of the table, nobody in the bar seeming to mind at the sound of glass shattering. He took a shard of the glass and used the edge to line the white powder into a thin line. Sam muttered something about him being a "fucking pussy" and shoved him over by the shoulder, taking the baggie and dumping out enough powder to make the line thicker. With unflinching confidence—and probably experience—she took the rolled-up dollar and put it in her nose, using one hand to hold the dollar in place and using a finger on the other hand to press the other nostril closed. She snorted up the cocaine in one hit, barely blinking tears when she came up. The man narrowed his eyes in jealous approval, and her being Sam, she raised an eyebrow and used her tongue to lick up the last bit of cocaine straight off the table, looking the same way a whore would give head. So fucking classy,

_Our hearts about to palpitate…_

And from my spot at the bar, I watched as she muttered something that pissed the guy off, and he stood up, causing a scene. No one running the bar seemed to give a shit, but the bar-goers turned their drunken heads towards Sam and the man. She only showed half-interest in what he had to say and he only yelled profanity like an illiterate, something along the lines of how that much snuff would cost her forty, or she could get on her knees like a bitch for him and call it even. Sam, indifferent as always, didn't seem into either option. I debated playing the knight in shining armor card, ready to jump in and defend her any moment, but by the look on her fucking cocky face, she had this. Even when he took a jagged piece of glass and thrust it towards her face, she maintained composure. Finally, when he started getting close to actually cutting her, she simply stood up, raised her fist, and knocked his lights out. All of this under five minutes, her blasé face still the same, and she was probably high and drunk within the process.

The man was on the floor, face down, and everybody in the bar went back to their original activities, all of them making a mental note to not cross paths with Sam. Well, all except me. I went up to her, stuffing my hands in my pockets, trying to match my expression to her bored, unimpressed one. I looked at her eyes, bloodshot with intoxication, and she stared at mine, which I hoped she read as condescending and disparaging. Unable to find some form of words, my inner muse solemnly ashamed, I just looked at her.

She was beautiful. Her heart shaped face with her pink cheeks and soft lips and eyes that, although under the influence, were deep a mysterious. Curves that could bring a man to his knees, a waist small enough to wrap both hands around, and leg muscle like no other. She was sexy. Her long, blonde hair looked gritty, as if she hadn't seen a shower in days, and she smelled a little too harshly of vanilla body spray and cheap cigarette smoke. She was perfect.

_And give you pleasure in so many ways, dear..._

Without any preamble, or words in general, my lips crashed into hers, her mouth tasting like disgusting beer and a Slim Jim. I loved it. It was open-mouthed and sort of crude, but it was what I had been wanting. By the time I got my tongue in her mouth, she ripped away, eyes narrowed and watchful. "Don't fucking touch me."

"Will do," I hissed, taking her back into my grasp and snaking my fingers under her the hem of her shirt, playing with the delicate skin on the small of her back. My tongue devoured hers and, contrary to her demand, she was kissing back. We both fell into the booth, scrambling for more touch, more taste. I could feel myself starting to throb for her, and I forced myself to pull away. "Come home with me."

She nodded, pushing me off of her, grabbing my wrist and bending over to steal something out of the unconscious man's pocket. It was a set of keys. My head tsk-ed with disproval, but my pants leaped for joy at the convenience. She took the one emblazoned with the Ford logo off the keychain, dropping the rest onto the man. "Tell me where to go."

We escaped outside into the frigid, Christmas-reeking air, and she pressed the unlock button on the key. A beat-up truck in the back parking space lit up, and Sam rushed to that one. Although the truck was a relatively new model, it was thrashed, complete with dents and rust and caked-on mud and a broken passenger window.

_All I want is for you to be happy…_

We barely made it into my apartment in two pieces. By the time I fumbled with my house key to open, she was already working on my belt buckle. I kicked off my shoes and dropped my keys in the entryway, almost forgetting to shut the door behind me. Impatient and horny, I picked her up, her arms wrapped around my neck and her legs around my waist, and carried her down the hall and into my bedroom, so glad that I lived alone. I didn't even bother to turn on the lights or look for a condom or discuss pulling out or anything. Her shirt went off and my teeth latched onto her nipple as soon as it was exposed. I had no intention of being soft, but I also had no interest in hurting her.

She moaned and writhed as I explored her body, mostly littered with tattoos and bruises and scabbed-over cuts, using my tongue in sensitive areas, and using my rough fingers in even more sensitive areas. In under ten minutes, she was coming down from her second orgasm, and I had no intention of stopping soon. She screamed and screeched, swearing to god, chanting my name, begging for more. I would tease and tease until she was to the point of tears, then I would just stop, innocently kissing her with no second thought before staring up again. I made her orgasm _four _times before she declared enough and threw me against the bed, straddling onto my hips and sliding herself down the length of my dick.

And eventually I came inside her, holding her hand and saying her name over and over again. It was sloppy and hormonally-charged, but I finished kissing her for the ninetieth time that night, rolling her over and tucking her under the sheets where I knew for at least that night, she would be safe with me. Not in an alley, selling her body for money, not in a club, grinding on people she didn't know, but safe in my bed, where I would hold onto her for the dear life of me. And as we were drifting off to sleep—she was the type to sleep off her cocaine and booze-high, anyway—I'm pretty sure I whispered her ear that I loved her. Because after five years of watching her in the act of recklessness, and five years of _only _watching, I figured it was time to let her know.

_And finally you have found someone perfect…_

When I woke up, headache and sore body and all, she was still there, besides me, asleep. The bright light filtered through the blinds covering my window, and the yellow glow hit her body, radiating and giving her the appearance of an angel. It was three o'clock in the afternoon, and I had slept through my noon class in the Civic Hall. Wobbling up and into the kitchen for some water, I poured Sam a glass and went into my medicine cabinet for some aspirin. Placing those items and my waste basket beside the bed for her and her much-awaiting hangover, I slid on some boxers and set out a t-shirt for her to wear.

Climbing back in bed beside her, I whispered again that I loved her, unknowing if her feelings were returned or not, but not giving a shit either way. It was true, no matter which way she would look at it, I loved Sam. I busted my ass to end up in the same college town as she would, just to have this moment with her. Right when I was getting into the groove of sleep, Sam shifted. She flipped over, half asleep, and blinked her just-awakened eyes at me. "Freddie?"

"In the flesh," I whispered, trying to be sensitive to the migraine I expected her to have. That's when it hit me that she might've not even remembered last night at all. I tried contemplating that idea, and the more I thought about it the more plausible it—

"I love you, too…" Her words were soft and sweet, it ironically ripped the silence apart at the same time, which was completely against what I was used to hearing from her. Silence passed and I saw that she fell back asleep. I kissed her on the forehead, following her example and blinking my eyes shut beside her. This was only the beginning.

_And finally you have found… Yourself._

**First thing I've ever written that's under 2,000 words. Ahaha, so anyway, this songfic was based off of **_**Hard to Concentrate **_**by the Red Hot Chile Peppers. I absolutely **_**love **_**RHCP and especially their album **_**Arcadium Stadium**_**, which is what this song is on. **_**Hard to Concentrate **_**is melancholy and sort of dark, which I think are the two key ingredients to an angsty, dirty Seddie fic(;**

**And although this is one of my most favorite songs, one of my reviewers, ****Zephyr Kay****, suggested it as a fic. And not to use her (or him, sorry if I screw up D:) as an example or anything, but I **_**told **_**you that I'm more than likely gonna write your suggestions(; So thanks again ****Zephyr Kay**** for your awesome suggestion. Haha, I don't know why I hadn't thought of this song as a Seddie fic sooner(:**

**So anyway, suggest stuff, review, enjoy, and follow me over on Twitter!(; "at" SammyPaigeSays(:**

**Xooxxoxoxoxxoxox,**

**Sammypaige(;**

**P.S., **_**two **_**whole oneshots in one day? hollaaaaa(;**

***less than three***


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